Because he knows, one way or another, he will become the rock under her foot that would cause her fall.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down—
Jane doesn't have much taste for Rilke, so he reads a little on Penelope and dabbles a little more on her counterpart, Odysseus, while occasionally observing the progress Rigsby is making. Rigsby is painstakingly going through the evidence box, cataloguing and itemizing each entry. The photos from the crime scenes are spread out on the conference table, all of the pictures dark and grey except for the splashes of colors afforded by Eurydice Jackson's dress and the bright swirls of gratiffi on the wall her body was slumping against.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles
Though much is taken, much abides—
Jane pauses before reading any further. The sentiment buried among the words seems so patently untrue—there may be a reason why Red John isn't as enamored with Tennyson as he seems to be with Blake—so he puts the book aside and picks up the crime scene photos from the desk. They're mostly distractions, so he studies them randomly with casual irreverence, waiting for something to tug at him.
And something does. "Rigsby, what do these"—Jane gestures at the middle of one photograph, at the black and red strokes swirling against the grey of the concrete wall—"look like to you?"
Rigsby pauses in the middle of his thankless task and studies the photo with Jane. "Gang signs," he says, easily enough, but then frowns. "Nothing I've seen before. But that pattern of in the middle, that squiggly thing surrounded by a circle? That usually means a claim."
"A claim?"
"Yep, the area was traditionally under another gang, but a new group is staking a claim. Probably we're going to see some changes around there, which isn't exactly a good thing." At Jane's look, Rigsby elaborates, "The transition like that usually gets extremely bloody."
"But Eurydice Jackson wasn't a victim of, what do you call it, a 'transition'?"
"Oh, no, definitely not their style. Even if the vic was somehow caught during a firefight as a bystander, we would've seen, well, a lot more bullet holes in her body." Rigsby, a big softie that he is, is almost cringing even as he answers.
"Huh." Jane considers the photo again and feels for the particular pull of instinct again, something that may unravel all the mystery with a single tug, but even after carefully observing the curves and the turns of the graffiti, nothing else comes to him. Which means there isn't much he can do until there's more information.
So he gives it up altogether and slowly wanders off, cradling a cup of tea in his hand and weighing his options. Cho's out scouting the crime scene area once again for witnesses. Lisbon, along with Van Pelt, has been holed up in her office for the last couple of hours, ostentatiously going over the paperwork for a case pending at the court. Even through the glass wall of Lisbon's office, Jane can easily read aggravation written on the arc of Lisbon's right eyebrow, on the thin line of her mouth, and it's difficult not to be overwhelmed by a sudden, helpless swell of affection.
Of course, he can always help Rigsby with going through the evidence instead of planning to irritate Lisbon in every possible way imaginable.
He could. Theoretically.
"Need any help?" he asks sunnily, opening the door to Lisbon's office and poking his head in. He feels rather cheerful even though he's volunteering his service for something he usually considers utterly, stupendously boring and more than a little waste of his time.
Van Pelt glances up at Jane, but Lisbon doesn't even look up. "No, Jane," says Lisbon, flipping through one of the many files currently decorating her desk and exuding gritted-teethed calm. "Under no circumstances are you to come within the ten feet of the case files."
"Oh, really?" Jane's perfectly aware how the saying goes—curiosity and cats never do go well together—but that old adage never stopped him before, and it isn't about to stop him now. "And why not?"
Van Pelt looks between her boss and Jane once and offers, "The DA office says they are no longer footing the bills for the therapies."
"The therapies?"
"The therapies," Lisbon echoes, her teeth still gritted, "that the ADAs regularly request in order to recover from the holy terror that is you."
Jane feels his grin turns wide and does not feel an iota of repentance, even when Lisbon looks up to level a quelling glare at him. "Oooooooh," he says, but before he can figure out a way to exploit the situation in some more fruitful and fun ways, Cho brushes past Jane into her office.
"We got a hit," Cho reports to Lisbon. "A clerk from a motel about seven blocks away from where the body was found recognized the vic's photo. She booked a room a night before. Used cash."
"What was she doing in a motel?" Van Pelt asks, a frown edging into her voice.
"To the best of the clerk's recollection, the vic came in alone and left by herself, but he isn't exactly certain when. He's says their security camera for the reception area was down for the last couple of weeks. If someone else followed her in and stayed with her, we can't check from the videos."
"Of course not," Lisbon says. She sounds only half resigned. "Because why would anything be that easy? Okay, what about the weapon? Do we have the ballistics results yet?"
"Ballistics yes, gun no," answers Cho. "If the perp hid it near the crime scene, we haven't found it. The casing doesn't seem to be a match with any we have on record, either."
The frown on Lisbon's face grows deeper, the arc of her eyebrow hinting at even more aggravation than before. "What did her co-workers have to say?"
"Some of them were out, so we haven't been able to cover everyone yet," Cho admits, his usual stoic tone taking on a tone of apology. "The general consensus is that she was diligent and meticulous—"
"Uh, boss?" Rigsby calls out from the doorway. They all turn to him, and Rigsby crosses the space between them in a couple of giant steps and hands Lisbon a printout. "One of Eurydice Jackson's credit cards was just pinged. Someone tried to use it in store, and the shopkeeper caught him basically red-handed. The Sacramento police is holding him right now. They just sent over the rap sheet, a kid named—"
"Andy Clayton," Lisbon reads from the printout, and her shoulders seem to sag, just a little. She's remembering the kid they met in the alley near the crime scene from the other morning—so is Jane, but Lisbon's always had a soft spot for lost causes. Saint Teresa of Lost Causes, Jane might just name her. The nickname is, all in all, pretty apt.
Lisbon silently squares her shoulders again. "Okay, Jane and I will take him. Cho, Rigsby, talk to the rest of the coworkers. Van Pelt, see if you can wrap up these files."
With respective tasks assigned, everyone disperses immediately. Lisbon is quickly on her feet, and Jane leisurely follows her out of the office. He gives her minimal grief over giving up the driver seat, and, as they drive through drizzling rain, he watches her out of corner of his eyes. She's quiet, except when she drums her fingers on the wheel, making soft, rhythmic tapping noises that are almost in sync with the raindrops pattering against the windshield. She's been tired and distracted, as of late. There are already enough reasons why she might be, though, without having to invent any hidden reasons as to why she must be.
Perhaps too many, Jane admits, most of them provided by yours truly.
Still, there's no reason to take on all the blame when there's already plenty to go around.
Andy Clayton, another of possible lost causes, may have to shoulder some of the blame. When the kid's ushered into the interrogation room of the Sacramento police station, he's wearing exactly the same guilty look on his face that he had two days ago. Lisbon schools her expression, but she still wears her heart on her sleeves for everyone to see, and not just for Jane who knows all of her expressions like a back of his own hand.
"I didn't do anything," Andy protests the second he sees Jane and Lisbon sitting at the table. "I just picked up her wallet, that's it! It's not a crime!"
"But using what's inside when it clearly isn't yours is," Jane says cheerfully. "Too bad for you, huh?"
Andy moodily kicks some invisible dirt on the floor.
Ah, all this misshapen youth, Jane thinks grandly. "But," continues Jane, "let's not concern with pesky little details, shall we? As long as you give us what we really want to know, we may just as well let this little thing go, for once."
That piques some interest, because the kid looks up and stares at Jane and Lisbon across the table with a begrudging hope.
"Andy," Lisbon leans forward and starts in her kindest voice possible, "where did you find the wallet?"
"I didn't!" the kid says quickly. "I mean, I didn't see nothin'!"
"No one's saying you did," says Lisbon, mustering the level of patience she often has to dredge up for Jane. Knowing Jane has to have been one long—and not exactly unhelpful—character-building exercise for her, if nothing else, so for that, Jane feels he's entitled to some credit. Not that, of course, he'll make that observation to her face. Well, not too often, at any rate.
"But you did, though," Jane points out, still quite cheery. "Obviously."
"—but it may help us find who the killer is," Lisbon presses on, casually bulldozing over Jane's words, "if you can tell us whatever you may or may not have seen. Someone killed this poor woman, and you may be able to help us catch her killer. Wouldn't you like that? To give her and her family some peace?"
The kid hunches his shoulders so tightly that he seems to crawl into himself. He's silent for a long time until he says, "I didn't, I mean I, I wasn't s'posed to be there, okay? Ricky's taken over that spot, and I couldn't exactly hang there all the time, but I knew Ricky was off somewhere that night, so I made rounds, and then—" Andy stops, shuddering visibly. "'m sorry, okay? Never saw a dead body before, and she was just—there. Dead. And I wasn't thinking about anything, okay? I really wasn't. It's just, her bag was just right there, and it was open, so I just. I mean, I didn't really think—I'm sorry."
The kid's head hangs between his shoulders.
It's been some time since Jane has seen anyone telegraphing guilt so loudly and clearly, and he can literally feel Lisbon's heart going out for the boy. The kid has a couple of records for petty theft, and drug-dealing has been only recently added to the list, but all in all, they've seen worse. Much worse. And after the initial snag, Andy tells them everything. No, he didn't see anyone else. It was probably between one and two in the morning when he found the body. And no, he didn't take anything else, and he's pretty sure he didn't see any gun anywhere.
When they take him out of the interrogation room, a frail woman, who can only be Andy's mother, is waiting for them. "How much trouble is he in?" Mrs. Clayton asks, wringing her hands together.
"The credit card he used was stolen from a murder victim." At Lisbon's careful words, the woman's eyes go wide. "Do you happen to know anything that might help us?"
She shakes her head vehemently. "Andy, my son, he's good kid, with a good heart, you see," she says, repeatedly. "He's just fallen with a bad crowd, that's all. Bad friends. Otherwise, he's always been a good kid, you see?" It's an explanation that is entirely unhelpful, but Andy's mother holds onto it like it's a lifesaver, just as all mothers do.
Lisbon nods and offers a few comforting words. Once the paperwork's gone through and the police decides to release the kid, she catches Andy by the back of his collar and turns him around to face her. "Stay out of trouble and listen to your mother, okay?"
Andy stares at his toes again; Lisbon puts her hand under his chin and holds it there until he meets her eyes. "Got that, Andy?" she asks, gentler still.
Andy swallows once and nods, guilt and remorse still clear on his face, and Andy's mother thanks them profusely.
Jane watches, in silence.
Outside, the rain continues to fall. Jane stands with Lisbon at the entrance, momentarily sheltered by the edge of the roof.
"So, where do think this leaves us?" Lisbon asks Jane, though her eyes are on something else entirely—on the mother and the son, getting into a beat-up truck in the parking lot, with the mother's hand protectively hovering above the boy's shoulder.
Lisbon's hand, almost absently, drifts toward the crucifix around her neck.
He watches her watch them, thinks, once again, Saint Teresa of Lost Causes. In more ways than one. At times, it amuses Jane to think of her as his personal, pint-sized and gun-totting angel, fierce in single-minded tenacity and ferocious in absolute relentlessness. He knows better than to say things like that out loud to her, of course. Sure, he likes to tempt fate—he's made a decent business out of it, in fact—but he's not stupid.
Still, just as she's done for her father, just as she will for Andy Clayton, she would also pray for Jane.
Secretly, maybe even perversely, Jane's glad for it. He has no fear of God, but sometimes, for her sake, he wants to believe it. If forgiveness can be granted through fervent prayers of others, if one can receive absolution without seeking it, he would like to have it come from Lisbon. Even if it's yet another thing he would owe her.
Yet another thing he would owe her, yet another entry on the ever-growing list that he could never repay.
You don't have to look back. I will always be right behind.
Perhaps he's better off believing in karma.
"—and after that, we should check with Cho and Rigsby. Maybe they had better luck."
Lisbon's talking. She's been talking. "Sure," Jane says quickly, one beat too late.
And it doesn't go unnoticed. She gives him a sidelong glance as they head toward their car. "What?" she asks, suspiciously.
"What what?"
His wide-eyed innocent look is, as expected, countered by her familiar exasperation. "You weren't even listening to me, were you?"
Sometimes he forgets that she can read him as well as anyone could. Close. Too close. "Oh, but when am I ever, Lisbon?"
That earns him her ire—as predicted and calculated—and he ducks away quickly from her sharp nudge. Except he dodges right when it should've been left, so he steps right into a puddle of rainwater.
The bottom of his trousers are instantly soaked; he jumps, sputtering in outrage, and she cracks up, right in his face, her laughter sudden and bright.
And for that singular, miraculous moment, there's the sudden, bright stab of happiness.
—and when he feels no smudge of the familiar darkness that perpetually taints his breathing every second, it breaks. This moment can only be a sleight of hand, a trick of light. He knows it better than anyone, a magician's trick, a trickster's magic, the joy that must degrade. That must be derailed, scudded again. Because—
The moment is made possible only because he has let Red John to kill his wife and daughter.
Its very existence is a betrayal. To them.
Just like that, the moment is gone. A bubble pop. A mirage.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down—
He's exactly in the right frame of mind to let it happen, except Lisbon looks at him quizzically, eyebrow up and her hand at his elbow. "You okay?"
He straightens up, looking as scornful as he can be. It takes longer than he'd like. "Of course not, Lisbon. I'm soaking wet. This is horrifyingly and utterly unacceptable."
"Right," she says, halfway between annoyance and amusement. "God forbid you'd ever catch a cold. You'd be insufferable for days. Let's go."
She marches on, pulling him beside her like she's marshalling the troops, with that off we go in her voice, in her every step. Even in frustration, even with every obstacle he throws at her, she perseveres. He can easily believe she will march straight on and never lose her way, even though there may be a day, not so far from now, she'd her lose herself and stumble.
Because he knows, one way or another, he will become the rock under her foot that would cause her fall.
It comes to him as almost a coward-like relief, then, that he won't be there to see her fall.
TBC
